


Contrition

by mansikka



Series: Heavyhearted [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, POV Dean, Regret, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 15:27:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10789434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansikka/pseuds/mansikka
Summary: Dean doesn't think he can ever allow himself to love Cas.





	Contrition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zaidnovi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaidnovi/gifts).



> ... because people wanted to hear this from Dean's POV. And because zaidnovi offered me Mars and one of its moons to write it :D 
> 
> I have... no idea if this is what you were expecting! But anyway... here **shoves fic at screen**

It’s time to give up.

This wasn’t meant for you, anyway, never has been. It's not something you ever let yourself dream you’d get to experience. There is nothing - no one in this world, that you have ever wanted like this, that you have ever wanted this much. But that’s exactly why you don’t get to have it, can’t have him. You don’t deserve these kinds of things, that’s not what your purpose is here, not what your life is about. You’re here to serve, and that’s it; there’s no room in your world for anything else.

And anyway, he doesn’t want you. He can’t, it’s impossible.

Except, he looks at you like he does. He looks at you, like he sees something hopeful, someone worth believing in. He looks at you, like you’re the most incredible thing to happen in his entire existence, like before you existed, he didn’t see the point in anything. He looks at you, like you’re worthy, and hell, if that isn’t an impossible thing for you to live up to, because you’re not; you know you’re not. What if you give in, let him see you, and one day he realizes that for himself?

Good things do happen, he told you once, and though it’s true, it’s also a blanket term meant for other, better people. Not meant for you. And you prove that, over and over, by hurting him, by letting your defenses down just enough to reveal how you’re feeling, then hauling them back up again in his face, shutting him out, pushing him away, then blaming him for how you’re behaving.

It’s always him who is standing too close, staring too hard, caring too much. When it isn’t, you know that it isn’t, but how can you ever admit to any of that out loud? How can you reveal yourself like that - doesn’t he realize you’re protecting him by keeping all these things to yourself? He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want this chaos that you are; he just hasn’t looked hard enough to notice you are entirely composed of flaws that can’t be fixed, that are too weak to lean on, that’s all. Because if he did, if he honestly looked at you, and saw you for what you are, then he’d walk away from you again without ever glimpsing back. Permanently this time.

Maybe that’s what he’s doing now. There’s only so many times you can push anyone with the limitless patience he’s always shown you, before they finally take the hint, and give up, move on. Seek out the good that they deserve, not the waste they’ve been lumbered with.

The bed beneath your back becomes too hard, the room too confining, and the air so stifling, it feels like you’re drowning with every lungful just for picturing him gone. Imagining him never coming back to you sets every nerve end singing with alarm. Keys dig into your palm, your heart protests against your sternum, and then you’re outside trying to breathe deep, trying to chase away that empty feeling inside you, though you know you can’t, not when he’s the thing you’re empty without. Wheels spin on gravel as you try to get away, but how can you escape what you’re running from, when what you’re running from is yourself? The open road is closing in on you, suffocating you with the truth, and it claws with fury at your throat, for all the things you’ve never said, but should have.

You love him. It’s beyond mere physical attraction, and entire universes away from familial affection. It’s also obvious, sharply focused, plain for anyone to see, despite how much you’ve tried to hide it - and terrifying for that very reason. This kind of thing is wounding, weakening; never mind the fear that you might not ever get to have this, that you keep denying you ever wanted it. You let him in, and you’ll lose yourself in him, it’s that simple. Look at him, you think to yourself with a burst of desperate laughter, as your mind conjures up a hundred images you can’t ignore, how could you ever not lose yourself in him? He is… everything.

Love is dangerous, though, too risky. Because if you let him really see you, how will you ever bear losing him again? What if, when you truly open yourself up to him, he turns, laughs in your face, tells you he was mistaken? What happens when he leaves you, like he has done so many times, stranded and flailing in the darkness of being alone again, only with newfound knowledge of how good it could have been, if only you’d been good enough for him? How can you ever expose yourself to that kind of hurt?

What if you were brave, though? What if, when he talks of leaving, you take a breath, force the fears back down your throat, and let yourself say the one thing that might turn him around; stay. Stay, with me. You belong here, this - I am your home. Because it’s true, it feels true, it has felt true for the longest time. When you don’t keep it in check, your mind likes to taunt you with crumpled sheets and warm skin, breath on your neck and a hand slotted through your own like it belongs there. Offering comfort. Companionship. Guiding you home.

The evening drags on, and bile burns your throat for what you might have thrown away here. The conversation that led to this point repeats itself to you wickedly, filling you with fear, and shame. What do you want from me? you’d asked him, deflecting, sat across the table like there was an entire gulf between you instead of two drained cups of coffee and a plate of untouched food. What do you want? Accusatory and dismissive in your tone, a mask to hide behind, because you’re scared, you’re so scared of giving in to what you want.

What do you want?

Him, is the easiest, honest answer here, though it’s not enough; there will never be enough words you can say to sum up all that he is to you, all that he means to you. Everything that you need from him, because it’s not just want, is it? Not only that. You need him; it’s like he drains the color from everything around you when he’s missing, blurs your focus, your purpose when he’s gone. But you haven’t told him that, you’ve never told him that. Never admitted how lost you are without him.

And when he walked away from that conversation earlier without answering, just got up from his chair and walked out of the kitchen leaving you there, you did nothing. Sat there momentarily stunned by your own stupidity, when you could have then gone after him instead of going to your room, stopped him before he’d even got outside. And now you’ve lost him, you really might have lost him, for good this time. How much more did you think he would take it from you, the constant self-denial, when he’s got to have heard you; how could he not have heard you thinking all you did, all you do think?

He knows you’re confused, knows you’re scared by this, but, you acknowledge, it’s got to be at least just as frightening for him as it is for you. This was never meant to happen to him; he was never supposed to feel things like this, has nothing to compare it to. You knew that, and yet you’ve left him alone in this, without guidance, kept him at arm’s length when you should have just pulled him into your arms and held on to him, figured it out between the two of you like you try to do with everything else.

What if it’s too late now?

It’s been hours, you think, a quick glance at your wrist leaving you shifting in your seat and pressing your foot down a little harder, though that seems pointless, given you’ve no idea where you’re supposed to be heading. Though if he’s feeling hopeless, and he’s only got your coping methods for guidance on this, you know exactly where he’d have gone. Pray that you’re not wrong.

You taught him this, you think, as your eyes drift over a familiar truck in the bar parking lot - drinking away your problems. You’re both relieved enough to sink to the footwell for seeing it there, and terrified enough to want to swing a 180 and head for home. Because this is it now, it has to be it, you can’t keep stringing this out any longer. If you go in there, you can’t walk away from him again. And if you leave, you can’t ever ask him to come back.

What do you want? You ask yourself once more, and are swarmed by a rush of possibilities. They range from forgiving hugs to first kisses, and all the way up to never being alone again, never waking up hollow. Be brave, you plead with yourself, trembling fingers opening the car door, quaking knees carrying you towards the bar. Be brave; please, be brave.

From the doorway, you watch him. Your throat clicks and your stomach clenches seeing the way his fingers wrap around a glass, clunk it down hard against the bar when it’s empty, noisy enough to signal he must have been drinking all evening. You did this, you repeat, your heart sinking; of all the things you could have taught him, why did you have to teach him this? How to hurt, and drown yourself in it?

He’s on the verge of tears, and the realization has you taking a stumbling step forward, only to be stopped by someone drunkenly heading out and blocking your path to him. You watch him right himself, appear angry that he’s allowed himself the emotion. What must he be thinking, you ask yourself, aching for him. How alone must he feel?

He stands, hands spread wide around the bar stool for balance, wobbling slightly on the spot as he fumbles for a wallet, and shoves a handful of bills across the bar. He turns, and he looks amused by the concept, and god, if that little smile on his lips doesn’t make you want to rush across the bar and taste it. But you can’t, you can’t force yourself on him like that, like you’ve any right to; you need his forgiveness first, and then his permission. And as well as that, you need to know that he really does want you, that he really does love you back. You have to hope for it. Even if you don’t deserve it. Even if it’s terrifying to think that you might mess this up.

You love him, you allow yourself to acknowledge again, a little stronger this time, your heart beating for it as his eyes glaze over then focus on you in blatant disbelief. How could you ever hurt him like you have?

He sucks in a breath, begins stumbling towards you, and your hands twitch open down by your sides, prepared to catch him if he falls, of course, but more in a hesitant invitation. The expression on his face is fearful, like he doesn’t trust himself enough to believe that you’re really here, and you only have yourself to blame for that, for putting him through all you have, for filling him with such doubt. You have a world of making up to do, if he lets you, you tell yourself, silently pleading that he’s generous enough to give you the chance.

Your hands raise up, and the feel of his jacket beneath your fingertips is a catalyst, allowing you to grip a little firmer and draw him closer to you. You check him over, try to tell him without saying a single word that you’re sorry, you’re so sorry, and that you need him; that you’re his, if he wants it. If he wants you.

There is a cautious smile that seems to answer that question, and it leaves you feeling as drunk as he must be, judging by the way he sways there in front of you. There’s so much to talk about, so much to do; but right now, all you can picture is getting him back home, curling up beside him, falling asleep with him safe and warm right there with you. Starting to show him just how much he is loved.

“Let’s get you home,” you say, and his jaw trembles for hearing it. How can you have reduced him to this? How could you ever be so cruel?

You push open the door, hear a slight gasp that must be the feel of the cool night air rushing at him after hours stuck inside that bar, and you wrap your arm around his shoulders, tugging him close, amazed at just how right it feels to hold him like that. You hesitate, then tell yourself you won’t ever hesitate with him again, and press a lingering kiss to his temple as you guide him towards the car.

He’s looking at you as though he’s frightened he might wake up from dreaming at any moment. If you’re what he dreams of, you begin to think, ready to scoff at yourself in ridicule, but then force it back again. How can you not, when he’s looking at you as though you are everything, that you’re giving him everything, just by finally, finally getting your head out of your ass?

In the car, he sits and stares up at you, wide-eyed and half-focused, and you wonder just how much he’s had to drink tonight, then relish in the thought of looking after him if it’s even half as much as you suspect. You smile, and he seems alarmed by it; your job now is to change that, to make him expect to see your smile, rather than fear what’s lurking behind it.

There is not enough tenderness you can show him now, you think, racing around the car so you can climb in yourself. But you’ll try, you tell yourself, starting now, as you drag his hand across the seats on to your lap, press it against your thigh and glance down, realizing just how right it looks there, then steer the car out into the road, heading home.


End file.
